


florida orange

by eddiekissbrak



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), this is just me rambling abt a snapshot of their love basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddiekissbrak/pseuds/eddiekissbrak
Summary: It was always a toss-up as to whether the warmth of his palm lulled Bill further into foggy dreams or shot his heart-rate so high he thought he’d never sleep again.(based on a prompt for a winner of my fic giveaway)
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 20
Kudos: 100





	florida orange

Bill slides the last book onto the shelf — squeezes it, more like, forces it to fit in the space that’s a half-centimeter too small for this novel — and sighs. Finished. Just the right amount of space on the shelf for his and Mike’s entire collect— 

Bill turns around, hands on his hips after a job well done, only to see a forgotten box sitting on the desk in front of him. Fuck. 

The move had been hard. Not emotionally — emotionally, getting out of LA was one of the easiest things Bill had ever done — physically. He was old now, with back pains and joint pains and other pains out the wazoo. Mike’s choice to leave most of this material possessions behind was a savior to both of their poor, 40-year-old bodies, but packing it all up and bringing it to the modestly-sized U-Haul they rented was still a task that left both of them sweating in the front seat. 

At least there was only one place to be packed up. Bill’s divorce had been clean-cut and simple: Audra could have the house, and the cars, and the fancy coffee maker Bill still didn’t know how to use, and Bill would keep wall of books from his library. He would also keep, much to his relief, a cautious but steady friendship with his ex-wife. 

It wasn’t her fault that he’d married the mirror image of a fragment of his childhood trauma; it wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t love her the way she deserved. 

Friends before lovers (and probably always better as such), Audra had taken to the divorce with an accepting heart and the promise to keep in touch. Before Bill had left LA for the final time, books packed and stamped with shipping labels, Audra had pulled him into a tight hug and whispered into his hair:

“You better let me come meet that librarian of yours. I’d ask for pictures but I know you still can’t figure out Instagram.” 

Bill had laughed into her shoulder (he always was shorter than her, and the heels she’d taken to wearing more often now didn’t do him any favors) and mumbled back “I will.” 

Though his book collection had been sent directly to the new home they’d scouted out beforehand, Bill and Mike chose to roadtrip with the U-Haul together. 

_ Why rush? _ Mike had said. _ It’s the rest of our years now — not just 27.  _

Down the east coast and through the Carolinas, past the peach orchards of Georgia: all 1,600 miles between Maine and Florida passed in 4 days of hazy sunsets and warm brushes of skin. Mike liked to drive, and Bill liked to watch him drive, so that’s how they spent most of the trip. On the long stretches of road, the parts where pine trees blended into cedars blended into green green green, Mike would let his hand drop from the gear shift to the center console: from the center console to Bill’s knee. 

It was always a toss-up as to whether the warmth of his palm lulled Bill further into foggy dreams or shot his heart-rate so high he thought he’d never sleep again. 

The realization that Bill was in love with his best friend had hit him like a wide-load tractor trailer the moment he stepped foot back in Derry — all six-foot-four of tall dark and handsome wrapped in easy smiles and warm eyes, cinnamon and clove in the smell of his jacket as Bill hugged him despite the sizzle of Chinese food around them — but with a murder clown on the loose there’d been no time to give it any thought. Post-fight, post-watching one of his closest friends nearly die, post-finding a naked and confused Stan in the middle of the quarry, Bill realized he didn’t need to think about it. As Mike surfaced from the green-blue quarry water, streaks of dirt and blood filling in the cracks of his half-dimpled smile, Bill knew everything he needed to. He knew that he loved Mike, had always loved Mike: that the love had seeped into his bones and into his blood when they were only teenagers. He knew that the love had never disappeared — just froze, like a frog in the winter, and thawed the moment IT’s fog lifted from Bill’s eyes; he knew, starting right then, he’d never waste another minute without Mike Hanlon. 

So why the fuck was he wasting time unpacking books when he could be visiting Mikey at work instead? 

(Alright, so maybe it was just an excuse to stop unpacking, but it was a good excuse.) 

It’s nearly lunchtime, and Bill knows for a fact Mike hadn’t packed himself anything to eat before he left. He’d been a bit… preoccupied. The thing about waking up next to Mike meant that Bill was  _ waking up next to Mike _ . It meant that Bill spent a little too long indulging in the lazy kisses and sleepy touches across his back; it meant that it was absolutely his fault that Mike had gone racing out the door with his shoes half tied because he’d been too distracted by Bill’s pliant body, still half-asleep and full of wanton morning love, laid out on top of his own. 

“You should g-get ready,” Bill would mumble, lips pressed against Mike’s neck.

“I should,” Mike would say, and tighten his arms around Bill.

Mike was almost late to work a lot these days. 

They’ve been in this house two weeks now, but it’s still half in boxes. Bill wakes up each morning with full intentions of getting things done — seriously, he tries, okay — but every time he opens a box he finds something that distracts him for a few hours until he forgets what he was doing in the first place. Apparently, Mike owns a harmonica; Bill spent… well, it doesn’t matter how long he spent fucking around with that harmonica. What matters is he only unpacked one box that day, and Mike came home to the ear-bleeding sound of what was maybe  _ Sweet Home Alabama _ — or maybe _ Party in the U.S.A _ , it was kind of hard to tell. 

Being half moved in also means that their fridge is only half full; Bill opens it to see what he can scrape together and finds only three eggs, a carton of milk, and two Kraft cheese singles. 

Well that simply won’t do. 

Twenty minutes and two Kraft singles later, Bill pulls the station wagon into the parking lot of Mirror Lake Library with McDonalds. 

It’s not busy — rarely ever is, let alone on a Tuesday afternoon — and the people Bill does see milling about are all at least over the age of 60. Near the craft section, an elderly couple is having what seems to be a hushed but heated debate. The woman takes a book from the shelf and smacks her husband’s arm with it lightly before walking away, leaving the man to chuckle giddily to himself before following. Which reminds him: he really should give Richie and Eddie a call. 

There’s no sign of Mike at the circulation desk so Bill wanders through the aisles aimlessly, looking for him but also just enjoying the peaceful energy of a library in May. There’s something so calming about the stacks of books and the people who spent their time perusing them. As a kid, Bill hadn’t ever been as infatuated with libraries as Ben had — Bill’s escapism tended to follow in the footsteps of wherever Richie and Stan took him, finding more comfort in the arms of friends rather than a stuffy building with old people. Now that he  _ is _ an old people, though, the tranquility is welcomed with open, plaid-covered arms. Belatedly, Bill realizes he’s forgotten to change out of his pajamas. 

Ah, well. Sweatpants are socially acceptable, right? 

As Bill turns a corner, he goes thwapping into a display case, and he bravely attempts (and fails) to catch a book that leaps from the shelf with the force of the knock. Leaning down to pick it up, Bill finds that it’s his book. Well, not his, it’s clearly the library’s, but it’s one he’s written. He stands and finds that the entire case is filled with his books: an entire monument to the extended collection of one B. Denbrough. 

Bill goes bright pink when he reads the title at the top of the display rack, all cut out in yellow, funky-fonted letters: “Author of the Month: Bill Denbrough.” Beneath it, a picture of Mike is tacked up, a small caption reading  _ chosen by Librarian Mike _ . 

“You like it?” comes a voice from behind him, and Bill jumps so badly he knocks another book from the case. 

“ _ Mikey _ ,” Bill protests, the McDonalds clutched to his chest like something precious as his heartbeat subsides. Still, he’s smiling. “I c-can’t believe you did this.” 

“What? I like his work. Have you ever read it?” Mike’s grinning, all sunshine and pearls, and Bill feels sixteen all over again. 

“N-no, and I never will. He suh-seems like kind of a hack to me. I heard he c-can’t write endings.” 

“Hm, maybe so. Personally I like the endings, but…” Mike takes the book from Bill’s hand and flips to the final page. “That’s probably because I like looking at the author photo on the back flap.” 

Bill hates that photo — it makes him look vitamin D deficient and somehow, despite being a shoulders-up portrait, it also makes him look short. Which… he  _ is _ short, but people don’t need to know that. 

“Oh, stop it Mikey,” Bill says, and attempts to take the book back, but Mike just reaches over Bill’s shoulder to set it back on the case before pressing a soft kiss to his graying hairline. Flowers bloom in his chest. “I bruh-brought you lunch.”

“Healthy,” Mike hums, though he doesn’t look put out. “Are you joining me?”

“Can I?” 

Mike’s honey smile is an answer in itself, and it’s the only one Bill gets before Mike takes his hand and leads him to the back lounge. 

As they sit there together, eating and laughing, a moment passes that makes Bill’s brain blink with an idea. 

There was, apparently, a drop of barbecue sauce on his chin, because Mike reached over to swipe a thumb across his skin to collect it. Bill watched Mike bring his thumb to his own mouth, lick off the sauce, and then pop the last bite of his burger in after. It’s something Mike must have done dozens of times — Bill’s a messy eater — but it still never fails to turn Bill’s heart into a world champion gymnast. It’s so normal and mundane and perfectly ordinary, an easy movement that doesn’t even interrupt Mike’s story about the patron who checks out the same book every week, but for whatever reason it resonates in Bill’s bones like the ringing of a gong. 

On the way home, Bill pulls off into the parking lot of a jeweler. 

_ It’s too early, it’s too fast, you’re not ready _ — the insidious screams of doubtful thoughts are silenced as Bill pushes open the door. And yeah, it might be: his divorce was only completely finalized two months ago; the battle in Derry only six months before that. Mike and Bill didn’t even call each other boyfriends yet — or partners, or whatever term 40 year olds in love felt most comfortable with — despite that the intimacy between them is heavier and deeper than anything Bill ever had with Audra, even in the height of their marriage. But none of that matters: not to Bill, at least, and he was sure from the way Mike smiles at him, peels him open like one of those Florida oranges growing on the tree in their backyard, that Mike feels the same. They love each other, have for as long as either of them can remember through the muddiness of their time apart, and as Bill scans the rows of wedding bands and engagement rings, he thinks that the only reason he needs.

That, Bill thinks, and that he — and all of the Losers, really — has kept Mike waiting long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd pls don't flame me


End file.
